Words
by dyingimmortal
Summary: Five things Levi never told Petra. Rivetra.


_Reposted from my Rivetra drabble/ficlet collection because my OCD kept pointing out it didn't fit with the format of the other fics in that collection; sadly, I'm a slave to my OCDs. (I have many.)_

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**Words**

or: five things levi never told petra

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_1._

She comes to him with her hair long and shining in multiple hues, gold and amber and brown in the dappled sunlight that filters through the windows every morning. She does not tie it back or pin it up; it reaches over halfway down her back, swinging as she walks, and he can smell the faint floral scent of her shampoo all the way from his place at the head of the table.

It is impractical to have long hair as a soldier, particularly as a soldier of the Scouting Legion, and he is surprised she has managed so far without cutting it short. But now she is part of his elite squad; he will be putting them through far more rigorous training, and he's certain her hair will be a hindrance, getting tangled easily in the wires of her 3DMG and in the branches of the trees they swing past.

But her performance is top-notch and somehow her long tresses never get in the way. Weeks pass and Levi never says anything, but when he sees her every morning, the sunbeams turning her hair into a golden waterfall, shades of amber cascading down her back, he sometimes cannot help the stupid thought: _I like your hair._

Then one expedition, she is nearly yanked into a Titan's mouth by her long locks, and she cuts them that very night. The next morning he is momentarily surprised when he realizes he can see the back of her neck, and then he tells himself to stop being an idiot and tries not to think about her hair again.

_2._

She is an early riser, often getting up even before him, so when he makes his way downstairs in the mornings, she is usually there already, coffee boiling on the stove and a cheerful smile on her face.

She fetches him a mug—always the clean white one without any chips or cracks—and pours him coffee, adds a few teaspoons of cream and a few pinches of sugar, and brings it to him as he sits down. Only then does she pour herself a cup, and when Gunter, Erd, and Auruo come down, she does the same for them.

He stirs his coffee with a small spoon and waits a few minutes for it to cool before drinking. It is always the same: hot and milky, the taste bold and strong, tinged with particles of sugar he can feel on his tongue.

_Your coffee is too sweet,_ he thinks, but he drinks it anyway.

_3._

She tells him all about herself, about her favorite things to do on days off and the colors and smells she loves and the silly things she did as a child; about her past, about her best friends she grew up with and still writes letters to, about her mother who gave her life in service to the Scouting Legion ten years ago, about her father and how he worries about her constantly, but _I'm fine Papa I'm under Captain Levi's command and he's the best soldier there is, don't worry about me Papa _she will tell him.

She is still so young, her words curious and innocent as she asks him about his past; she wants to know him too like he knows her. She wants to know about his family and his friends and what he was like as a boy.

He almost wants to laugh whenever she brings it up, because when he was younger than her he had already done far more than she will ever do. He remembers girls just like her, girls with bright hair and bright eyes and bright blood, and thinking about them and then thinking about Petra makes him feel sick.

"I grew up on the streets. I had to do some pretty shitty things to survive," is all he ever tells her, and eventually she stops asking. He knows what she imagines him like as a child: a poor homeless street boy who had to steal food and take shelter in the dirt and the cold, and he knows she feels bad about it.

_No, Petra, _he never says, never corrects her, _I was a killer._

_4._

He wakes to the feeling of something warm pressed against his chest, warm and soft and tickling his skin. He opens his eyes and squints against the sunlight shining through the window; the glare is much too harsh for it to be early morning.

"Mmm, you're finally awake," Petra says, though her voice is a quiet murmur itself. "It's nearly noon."

She shifts against his chest, wrapping her arms more firmly around him, and presses her lips to the underside of his jaw; her hair tickles his shoulders and the sensation is so wonderfully soothing he thinks he never wants to leave the bed.

It is a rare moment for them; they have the next two days off and the rest of the squad has gone to visit their families. They are free of their duties as soldiers, if only for a little while, and Levi thinks he could get used to waking up like this.

He strokes her hair, the light catching on various strands and turning her head into a spot of gold against his white bedsheets. Her fingers curl against his lower back and he traces patterns against her skin.

The thought comes from nowhere—_I want to marry you_, he thinks, and then he shakes his head, forcing it away before it can fully develop. It must have come from her talk about marriage the other day—she said she'd always wanted to get married someday, become a mother, have children of her own to take care of.

She will be a great mother someday, but right now, she is a soldier, and so is he, even if he's doing his best to forget that for the moment. He cannot let himself indulge in silly thoughts about things like marriage if he cannot even promise her the next day.

"What's wrong?" she asks, raising her eyes to his; she must have felt him shake his head.

He kisses her on the tip of the nose; her eyelashes flicker against his cheeks. "Nothing," he says. "Nothing's wrong."

_5._

He should have told her.

He is not a man of many words; the ones that come out of his mouth are usually blunt, rude, coarse, or a mixture of the three. To him, actions speak far louder than words: after all, their world is all about the _running_ and the _fighting_ and of course, the _bleeding_ and the _dying_. Words are not going to do anything against the Titans; they're not going to _talk_ the giants away.

He never said it outright to her, but he thinks he told her anyway, through his fingers as he ran them through her hair, through his lips as he pressed them to her skin, through his eyes whenever he looked at her.

He never said the words outright, but now he tries them, lets his lips trace those three syllables: _I love you._

Actions speak far louder than words, but he thinks this time, words might have been nice.


End file.
